


Iris

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Ficlet, M/M, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-04
Updated: 2015-12-04
Packaged: 2018-05-04 23:24:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5352242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Faramir self-disparages, and Aragorn attempts to build him back up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Iris

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for anon’s “Faramir keeps expecting Aragorn to treat him like Denethor treated him and acts somewhat self-deprecating all the time and stuff because let's face it when your parent tells you you're worthless all the time you kind of start believing it no matter who you are. Aragorn is kind of upset that someone would lead Faramir to believe he's worthless and sets out to make things right” prompt on [the Hobbit Kink Meme](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/2320.html?thread=3040528#t3040528).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Lord of the Rings or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

After a long day’s work, it’s good to be _home_ , in his bedchambers with his servants dismissed. He pours the wine himself, evening out a fair portion of the remains between two glasses and setting the bottle back down. There’s another in the attached study, but this should do. Taking both glasses by their stems, he turns to the bed, where his lover sits, waiting. 

Arwen’s gone again, off visiting Rohan with Éowyn, needing her own adventures from time to time and relief from a castle full of men. The sheets are changed in her absence, to be swapped again when she returns—they have an understanding. She delights in her handsome shield maiden, and Aragorn...

Aragorn passes one glass to Faramir, who smiles so very brightly as he takes it, grey eyes alive as his golden hair shines in the candlelight. He wears simple clothes—a plain green tunic and brown trousers, not that different from Aragorn. Here, the armour, crown, jewelry and other fineries, are left behind. Aragorn takes his seat on the blankets, so close that their folded knees touch. Faramir has his back to the stone wall. Before he takes his first sip, he muses, “I should have been the one to serve you, Aragorn—you _are_ the king.”

Aragorn counters easily, “And you are my prince.”

Grin flashing faintly before falling, Faramir answers, “In title, perhaps. But despite my clumsiness, I am better suited to servitude than most things.” Then he lifts his glass as though in a toast and tips it back, taking down the first gulp. Aragorn, now too cold for his drink to remedy, eyes Faramir with a frown. He should’ve expected as much.

Faramir is hardly _clumsy_. Even if he were, there’s no shame in a servant’s job. But Faramir misunderstands himself. He self-deprecates far too often. Aragorn knows why. He’s heard too many tales, more from other sources than Faramir himself, of the late steward degrading his own son. It pains Aragorn more than anything to see how much Faramir believes the cruel lies he was told. Knowing Faramir was treated so poorly is one of Aragorn’s greatest regrets—he wishes he’d returned sooner and appointed Faramir his dues. 

Now all Aragorn can do is attempt to repair the old scars. Before Faramir can take another sip, Aragorn gently plucks the glass from his fingers. He leans to place both aside on the nightstand. Faramir, though frowning in confusion, doesn’t protest. 

When Aragorn turns back, he shifts all the closer, so that their legs are fully intertwined as he asks bluntly, “Do you think my wife beautiful?”

Faramir, too pure for jealousy, simply knits his eyebrows together, confusion clearly all the greater. When Aragorn offers no explanation for the question, Faramir answers, “Of course. She is like a star.”

She is. Aragorn nods and continues, “Do you think her wise? Likeable?”

“Genius and loveable,” Faramir returns. Both true again. Arwen is a greater queen than Gondor could’ve ever hoped for. 

Yet Faramir is just as valuable, and Aragorn tilts his head, wondering aloud, “Then why do you imagine I am with you?” Faramir’s mouth falls open, just enough for an attractive little ‘o’ that Aragorn has to hold himself back from kissing. “Surely it would have been easier to never have to broach the subject of expanding our relationship with so great a gem, nor would there be any need. So why would I have put something so grand in jeopardy, if you were as useless as you seem to think?”

Faramir’s mouth works silently, but it only closes again, his cheeks staining a dusty pink. He obviously doesn’t have an answer. Aragorn reaches into Faramir’s lap, plucking up one sword-calloused hand. It’s softer than his own, far harder than Arwen’s. Lovely in its own right. Aragorn lifts it to his mouth and brushes his lips along the knuckles, murmuring, “You seem to think so much of me, my prince, and yet you do not value my judgment.” With his other hand, Aragorn reaches for Faramir’s face. He cups Faramir’s cheek gently in his palm and promises, “You are so devastatingly beautiful, my Faramir. In a different way, but just as much so as Arwen.”

Faramir, turning far redder, mutters, “No...” But he doesn’t seem to have the words for any more denial.

“ _Yes_ ,” Aragorn insists. He curls a few fingers under Faramir’s chin to tilt his head forward, and Aragorn comes to meet him for a quick, chaste kiss. Aragorn doesn’t pull back after. He growls over Faramir’s lips, “It’s true.” Another kiss, this time harder, and then Aragorn tilts his head and pushes his tongue insistently at Faramir’s mouth, pleased when it opens, so he can slip inside and taste Faramir properly. He kisses Faramir hard enough to flatten him back against the wall and drops one hand to his thigh, smoothing up and _squeezing_ , forcing him to make a little gasp into Aragorn’s mouth. Aragorn uses that second they part to hiss, “I burn for you every night that we’re apart.” Faramir actually _winces_ , as though hearing lies too painful, and his eyelids lower, eyes falling to his lap, but Aragorn, so very close that he’s drinking in the heat of Faramir’s body, continues, “I marvel at the sight of you. Whether you are polished for court or mussed from the field, you are so handsome that it’s all I can do to keep my hands off you every waking moment. I am not the only one to see it. So many of our people, of your own guard, eye you with _longing_ , and I am jealous of every one that has more time with you than myself.”

Faramir lets out a sudden small, weak laugh that’s clearly forced. Aragorn gives him no chance to protest, merely snorts, “And _clumsy_? You are the most graceful fighter I have ever seen, and I was raised with elves. You are a brave soldier of Gondor, but you are also a ranger—you are sleek and strong and cunning, artful and skilled. If I were not so transfixed with your beauty, I would still be in love from the vision of you in the wilderness or on the battlefield. You wield both a sword and bow as though you were meant for it. Even your bitter father could not deny you captaincy, and it was well deserved. Everyone under your command looks up to you. Surely you know that.” Faramir tries to look away, but Aragorn gently turns Faramir to face him.

He kisses Faramir’s cheek and lingers, leans against him, inhales deeply and breathes him in. Faramir shivers lightly in his grasp. Aragorn goes on, “Everyone in this city _adores_ you. You inspire such loyalty, and you are so beloved. And you _should_ be. You are _wise_ , in so many ways, mentally, emotionally, in so many matters. You are clever but kind—you have such a strong yet gentle heart—you are all of the best qualities in one, balanced and blended. The Valar themselves could not have made a more perfect man if they tried.” Now Faramir is nearly shaking. He lifts one hand to cup Aragorn’s against his cheek, gripping tightly enough that his knuckles turn white. He can’t seem to meet Aragorn’s eyes. Aragorn murmurs, almost reverently, “If I had not come along, I would be pleased to have you next in line for Stewardship, because there is no one who could do Gondor more justice. You _belong_ on that throne. You would be a greater king than any before you, all the way back to the days of our ancestors in Númenor. You are so wholly _good_ that it makes my heart stop in my chest just to think of you. I summon your image in my mind and my body swells with _love_. A day has yet to go by that I am not grateful to have you in my life, my Faramir, my lover, my prince. You are _everything_.”

Faramir’s eyes are wet around the edges. Aragorn can see it through his thick, lowered lashes. He closes them, face scrunching as though pained, and a bead of water spills from the corner of his eye—Aragorn’s quick to lick it away. He presses a firm kiss where it was and leans their foreheads together. “You are the greatest treasure in this city, in our nation,” Aragorn whispers, “you are worth more to me than all the jewels of Erebor, all the mithril in Moria, than the light of the elves. You—”

“ _Stop_ ,” Faramir breathes. It comes out cracked, broken. He squeezes Aragorn’s hand and shakes his head as best he can in that grip, then lifts his other hand to wipe at his eyes. He’s trembling. 

Aragorn can’t stand for them to be apart. It happens to him often. He shifts his arms to gather Faramir up in them, and he pulls Faramir forward into his lap, forcing Faramir to straddle his thighs and grab onto his shoulders, while Aragorn holds him tightly in. Faramir shakes his head again and tries to suck in a ragged breath. 

He admits quietly, “I... I always expect you to treat me like my father did.” Aragorn opens his mouth, horrified by the prospect, but it’s Faramir’s turn to roll on, “But you are so _good_ to me.” He sounds heartbreakingly grateful, and it makes Aragorn’s chest constrict.

“I am not good,” Aragorn counters. “I merely treat you as you deserve. I _love_ you. Éowyn loves you, even Arwen loves you, as do all the people of Gondor...”

Faramir sniffs to go along with his tears. He tries to scrub them away, tries to smile, his dimples so _cute_ when he does. Aragorn can see his self-doubt fighting with his need to be positive, to be agreeable. It takes him a moment to ask, “Can I have my wine back? I think I need it.”

Aragorn stifles a laugh. But he’s grinning wide. That might be acceptance, or at least a start. He leans over the bed to fetch Faramir’s glass and bring it back to his shaken hands. He takes one slow sip, then mumbles, “If you said all that to get into my trousers; you needn’t have—I was eager from the beginning.”

Now Aragorn really laughs. He allows the deflecting joke; he can see he’s overwhelmed his prince. He just hopes Faramir took it to heart. If necessary, Aragorn will repeat it all again tomorrow. 

For now, he takes his own drink. They sit there and enjoy it together, mostly in a pleasant silence, until Faramir slumps tiredly onto Aragorn’s shoulder, and it’s time to shuffle properly into bed and hold each other warmly. 

Before Faramir falls asleep, he whispers, “ _Thank you._ ”


End file.
